


A Night of No Stars

by prettyoddmoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ball at Malfoy Manor, Choking, Dancing, Dom Tom Riddle, F/M, Hogwarts, House Rivalry, Malfoy Manor, Ravenclaw Reader, Rough Sex, Tom is a phenomenal dancer and an even better lay, Top Tom Riddle, half-blood reader, spitting, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyoddmoon/pseuds/prettyoddmoon
Summary: Not only a rival of her house, but an all-in-all hostile individual, Tom Riddle finds himself venturing into taking a half-blood witch along to a formal, lavish ball at Malfoy Manor, with the sole intention of rubbing it in their prejudiced, classist faces.
Relationships: Tom Riddle & Reader, Tom Riddle/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 154
Collections: Harry Potter fics





	A Night of No Stars

**Author's Note:**

> hi, it's me again – piling in with yet another tom smut, i know, i know. at this point, it's my true calling. do enjoy! <3

A feeble candle flame of tangerine trembled in the faint, faded light, far not enough to provide the sufficient amount of warmth for a lonesome Ravenclaw shriveled up in a corner as though a dead leaf on the side of the pavement. The library was quiet, as it usually was, and the young witch was once again glad that she had been able to seek evening shelter (if not the most tepid of kinds) in a place that didn't overly buzz with energy and life – the wizarding school she attended deigned to do just that, teeming with students. Thus, a crumb of peace every once in a while was almost too welcome, and she was able to get work done, too. A win-win.

Suddenly, the sound of a door swinging open filled the dusty air; it was _that_ quiet. The feet against the wooden floor drummed a very unique, specific pattern – she _recognised_ it. That could only be... _yes, him,_ as she watched _him_ round the corner and sweep into view, his onyx robes stirring ever so slightly. The malachite badge that was sitting above his heart shimmered in the dim candlelight, and Tom Riddle's glare was focused on [Y/N]. A Prefect, although a Slytherin, and she had seen plenty of him all around the school and at Prefect meetings, too. His signature slicked wavy hair and ironclad mien were all there, and, _of course,_ how could she ever forget, _the cologne_. Hadn't his steps been telling enough, [Y/N] would've noticed Riddle's presence before he even showed himself – the rich scent alone would do the trick.

The young witch had been seated at her table alone, except for the company of her Astronomy homework, a pile of books, and a fresh set of quills. A certain sense of annoyance pooled in her chest at the sudden visitor; there had always been a certain unspoken rivalry between Slytherin and Ravenclaw – the two houses deemed most similar – and the tension was not only strung out between a handful of residents, but between simply... everyone. [Y/N] guessed that the hatred rooted in that one time her own house had debased Riddle's in Quidditch, or the time his house had won the House Cup by just three points, or merely the fact that all of their smug, condescending little faces were not the most pleasant sight to have. She assumed the feeling was mutual. “What do you want?”

Riddle didn't dare – _care_ – to sit down nor let his face portray the slightest taint of reaction, choosing to speak instead, “Most people go for 'Hello'. Merry evening, [Y/N].”

Her reply was dry. “Riddle.”

The Slytherin cocked his head at her just the slightest bit. He didn't appear distraught, he was rather calculating. “The library is bound to close soon, isn't it?”

“Indeed,” the girl replied, twirling her quill between her fingers. What in the world was he playing at? “But it's still open, isn't it? Thus, I would really like to proceed with my coursework, most preferably alone. Thank you.”

“You can proceed in a moment, as I won't be restraining you from it for long,” he retorted, a note of indifference both perceivable in his voice _and_ on his face. Seriously, the motherfucker could be an actor. Did he bear at least a single care in the world?

That's when [Y/N] realised: the boy was holding something in his hand. An envelope of some sort.

Riddle noticed that her eyes had flickered to his grasp, and stretched out his arm. It turned out to be a card of charcoal heavyweight paper, including florid, excessively curly writing of pearly silver printed upon it.

_Treasured Mr Riddle,_   
_The Malfoy Family finely invites you to attend their_   
_ANNUAL CELEBRATORY BALL_   
_Malfoy Manor_   
_Saturday, October 14th, 1944_   
_8pm_   
_Theme: SILK_   
_Plus-One granted_   
_RSVP_

As soon as [Y/N] finished reading, her eyes leapt back up to Riddle, whose features remained unaffected. He looked as though he felt no particular need to speak, expecting [Y/N] to have latched on. It's not like she hadn't, but it'd be nice if he elaborated... for once.

“Riddle,” the young witch let out a dark – almost taunting, it seemed, – chuckle. “ _I'm a half-blood_. Surely, I'm not someone _the Malfoy Family_ would desire to see amongst _their_ kind.”

“ _So am I,_ ” he responded flatly. How revealing of him. One truth at a time, Tom, one truth at a time. “I'm sure they'll get over it. And if not, I reckon they'll simply have to deal with it.”

“And _you're_ still invited, then?” she inquired, a faint grin playing on her face.

Tom leaned in, not too close for comfort but enough to threaten and cause the girl's throat to run dry. That grin from five seconds ago had faltered. “Abraxas would polish my Oxfords if I asked him to, _darling,_ of course I'm invited.” He was so sure of himself, spoke so matter-of-factly, but... _darling. Darling_.

The girl gulped, yet regained composure, issuing a scoff. Riddle's espresso eyes remained fixated on hers; there was a certain glint to them, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, and was intimidated yet enticed by. It's a glint that you can't quite grasp _how_ and _why,_ but you simply want to proceed with it and see where the current might take you. She wondered if _that_ was how Riddle had gathered his army of puppets, _sycophants,_ even, one richer and nobler than the other (Avery, Rosier, Nott, Black, _Malfoy_ , you name it – and those were just the ones she could name off the top of her head). It went without saying that Tom Riddle was a brilliant manipulator, so eloquent it trespassed the realms of danger, and so charming one exchange with him felt like falling in a trance. [Y/N] blinked. _That wouldn't work on her_. In opposition to the purebloods, she was at the least equipped with a functioning brain that not only focused on screwing anything that walks, breathes, and preferably has a skirt on (although _that_ wasn't essential).

Snatching the card from his grip, [Y/N] frowned; to Tom, it almost looked like a faint smile. “I take this as an invitation?”

“Precisely,” he replied, retracting his hand. He swiped his tongue over his bottom lip ever so slightly, yet enough to kindle a fire within the pit of the girl's stomach that she couldn't fully grasp nor fathom. It must've been the sultriness of the library... “Do conform to the theme for me, yes?”

“I might,” she sassed. Out of all ladies at Hogwarts dripping with wealth, advantageous connections, and purer, more delicate beauty, Riddle had picked _her,_ [Y/N], a half-blooded witch from his rival house. The two of them didn't even know each other _that_ well – surely, they had shared a handful of classes throughout their school life, and still did now that they attended their last year, in addition crossing paths during Prefect meetings across all four houses, but she would never have labelled their relationship a friendship; barely even an acquaintanceship. Riddle bore the fashion to keep to himself, unless, of course, he needed his networks arranged or tweaked – [Y/N] possessed no such power and was thus deemed useless by the Slytherin. In total, the two had exchanged about one hundred words at the most since their very first encounter, when students-to-be stood bunched up before the Sorting Hat (a few inches shorter and substantially happier... except for Tom, maybe – he appeared to have been born indomitable) and she had bumped his shoulder on accident (her overenthusiastic _Oops, sorry!_ was solely retorted by a bitter once-over).

Having allowed himself a sharp intake of breath, – it held the slightest background of impatience, and oh, how dare he express the slightest speck of emotion! – he corrected, “You _will_. Good night.”

And like that, he was gone before she could even process his last words. _Good night._ Likewise.

* * *

“After you.”

Although a cold-hearted schemer, Tom never let himself forget to be a gentleman. He stepped aside to let [Y/N] enter the fireplace first; they were stood in the Floo Network department of Hogwarts, all dressed up and ready to attend the ball at Malfoy Manor. Despite her vague claim, the young witch _did_ stay true to the theme – wearing a full-silk flowy yet skin-tight gown of champagne pink. With her hair loosely curled and resting atop her shoulders, she protected the hairstyle from getting ruined as she strode into the fireplace. In no time, she was absorbed by neon green flames as they licked their way up her body and swallowed her into a vortex of time and space – she closed her eyes, afraid of getting dizzy, and once they fluttered open again, she was stood in yet another different fireplace. It was much more lavish than the ones installed at Hogwarts, embellished with crystals and the Malfoy family crest. It wasn't the only one in the spacious, yet dim room – the floo lobby, as she rightly guessed – and all around her, there was popping, cracking, and uproars of fire. A feeble note of jazz struck her ears from afar. She lifted the skirt of her dress to hop out of the chimney, a familiar outburst of flames reaching at her back as she did so; in no time, Riddle emerged beside her in all his tall, cologne-drenched glory, offering his arm with a stony glare – it _did_ have a pinch of sultriness to it. Accepting it, [Y/N] allowed herself to be led out and into a hallway, where the tender notes of jazz increased in volume. The corridor was tall and long, the walls clothed in dark, ornate wallpaper. There were couples strolling in front of and behind them, each and every guest dressed so poshly the stench of insufferable wealth hung heavy in the air.

Once they had found themselves in the ballroom, [Y/N] questioned if she'd ever seen a hall bigger. The Great Hall at Hogwarts could certainly compete in size with the one found at Malfoy Manor – the mere difference, of course, being the lack of muggleborns and joyful spirit, and, surely, the generous colour palette of blacks, blacks, and... yes, blacks. The ballroom resembled the inside of someone's pocket, so dark and ominous it was, walls solely made of ebony marble streaked with veins of snow white and a tasteful crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The thing must've favoured a well-grown Hippogriff in size, given the creature was curled up in a sleeping position. Scattered all around the hall were small tables so white and shiny they might as well could've been made of porcelain. Resting atop were all different kinds of refreshments, glasses of drink, and even fountains of chocolate, caramel, and other different-coloured substances. Waiters dashed all over the place, clad in sable and specifically _not_ silk (to differentiate from guests, of course) – human, too, which surprised [Y/N] quite a bit, as she was expecting house elves to flutter about. But no, of course, after all, the Malfoys had to keep the spotless image. The young witch caught herself wondering whether the elves were locked up in a cabinet somewhere or simply boring themselves to oblivion down in the kitchens.

“Tom!” a shallow voice pierced her train of thought, and she averted her eyes to meet a head of platinum blond and the most baby-blue eyes she'd ever seen. It wasn’t hard to guess who was now standing before them, or at least which wizarding family the young man descended from.

“Abraxas,” the girl's date nodded ever so slightly.

The Malfoy glared at [Y/N] with a false, revolted smile, as though a piece of rotten meat had been set before him. He peered back at Tom, seemingly seeking shelter from having to look at the girl too much, although the glare he was giving him bore an unhidden bitterness, too. He knew entirely well _just_ why Tom had brought along [Y/N], a _half-blood,_ to a pureblood wizarding function. Nevertheless, he fawned, “I am delighted you've made it.”

 _Are you, Abraxas?_ She hadn't said the words out loud, but could see his reaction clear as day in her mind's eye. Raised eyebrows, tasteful smack of the lips, and a hidden outrage at the fact someone as low as a _half-blood_ had spoken to him _like that_. [Y/N] wondered if Abraxas actually liked Tom, – Riddle certainly didn't – rather than admiring him for anything he could never be: powerful, influential, possessing full freedom of word and effortless confidence.

A shorter figure clad in an onyx gown of silk appeared beside the young man, sporting the same head of striking ash blonde, and a face lined with years of hatred. [Y/N] assumed that was the mother.

“Tom, _oh Tom,_ how charming it is to see you,” the woman put forth. She raised her feeble, ring-infested hand, which Riddle gently accepted and planted a kiss upon. There was a twinkle in the witch's eyes that prompted she was mentally undressing the young man stood before her.

“Mrs Malfoy, it is a pleasure. I must thank you for the invitation, I was utmostly charmed.”

And there was the confirmation. Yes, it was the mother.

“Medeia, _please,_ ” even Abraxas seemed taken aback by his mother's sugary tone, “and I see you've brought along a friend... curious.” Mrs Malfoy's eyes drifted to [Y/N], and oh, if looks could kill, she wouldn't particularly drop dead, but would certainly need immediate hospitalisation; her glare upon the girl was almost acidic. _So that's where Abraxas gets it from._ That made sense. Except he hadn't perfected it _just_ yet, that equal balance of disgust and condescension, but there were many more years of practising to come. The young witch felt the sudden need to stifle a laugh, and performed an unneeded curtsy. “[Y/N] [Y/LN].”

Medeia Malfoy issued a mere _humph_ before gazing back at Riddle. “We shan't withhold you from enjoying your night any longer, Tom. I do recommend the raspberry ripple, it is quite the delight.” It struck one as though the _you_ the witch was referring to exclusively included Tom.

“ _We_ shall see about that, thank you very much.” So Tom had noticed it, too. He bid the mother-and-son duo a prompt goodbye, and they took off soon after, settling on talking to a burly older woman with her flaming ginger hair pinned up in a loopy hairdo. She wore more jewellery than [Y/N] had ever seen in her life, the most prominent piece being an emerald locket around her throat; it obscurely shimmered in the argent light. The girl caught Riddle staring at it for just an uncomfortable tad too long, and thus gave his arm she was clutching onto a firm squeeze.

“Are you all right?”

He glanced down at her. “Yes.” Having taken a pensive pause, which was almost theatrical, he proceeded, “Now, I must do some... networking. Would you like to accompany me?”

As much as [Y/N] wanted to stay with Riddle, since the audience of the ball promised nothing beyond dirty looks and hushed whispers, listening to him talk business and politics while toadying up to wizarding bigwigs wasn't her preferred way of spending a ball.

“No, thank you,” she replied, letting go of his arm. “I shall see you by the statue over there–” she pointed at a tall marble sculpture of a snobbish-looking wizard, probably a Malfoy ancestor, “–in an hour.”

“Very well,” agreed Riddle, and the pair parted ways. [Y/N] strode off to the side, asking herself if anyone would mind had she indulged in a glass of champagne. She was seventeen, thus of age, yes, but would it be appropriate for a teenager to be drinking at a posh ball, a ball where she wasn't _that_ welcome at?

The answer to her internal question came as though wished for. Out of the corner of her eye, she recognised three very intoxicated individuals – a certain Dimitri Dolohov, Rodion Avery, and a smaller boy who heavily resembled the latter. The trio resided on a nearby sofa, sprawled out and giggling their arses off. She wondered if alcohol was the only substance they had taken delight in. Not a single soul around them appeared to care about the three potentially underage wizards getting pissed off their rocker. Splendid. Having taken hold of a crystal glass holding a sparkling, pale liquid, the young witch turned on her heel so as not to get detected.

“[Y/N]! Come h–here, yah sweet piece o' filth!”

Too late.

She inhaled with a certain undertone of sharpness, twirling back around. Avery had shakily stood up, staggering about. Saving him the trouble of potential collapse, – although that would be a sight she'd never say no to – the young witch strode in his direction.

“Hello, Rodion. Hello, Dimitri. And...”

“Hic– Edelias,” spoke the younger boy in an accent rather unusual for Britain.

“That's mah cousin from, er, Sweden,” introduced Avery, his face splitting in a wide grin. He sent a hand through his castaneous hair, tousling it as though he were trying to shake the drunk out of his brain. It didn't work. “How'd _you_ get 'ere?” Even the fact he was under the influence didn't change that he was a complete and utter arsehole; on the contrary, it seemed to emphasise the quality.

[Y/N] nursed her glass of champagne, growing more uncomfortable with the exchange. “Riddle has invited me.”

Both Dolohov and Avery snorted in unison – the sound strongly reminding the girl of pigs.

“And how'd that work ah– out for you, eh?” guffawed the taller boy with more angular, generally wilder features. Pressing the side of his palm to his forehead, he mimicked looking around like a captain. “Nowhere to be seen, the boffin. D'he not like the rumpy-pumpy, yah?”

The girl painfully rolled her eyes as the trio broke out in idiotic laughter – she wondered if Edelias-the-Swedish-cousin had understood the slang in the first place rather than laughing along, oblivious to the meaning.

“Next time, try to act less like a walking cock and balls. You disgust me,” she spat, offended. What all pureblood adolescent males collectively lacked was the mere respect for women. They either grew into it over time, or learned to conceal it better.

[Y/N] took off shortly after, trying to cancel out the sets of slurs and highly sexual remarks thrown at her back. They were drunk. That was normal. _For them._

She managed to find peace at an aloof little table in the corner, her still untouched champagne glass resting atop a perfect, silky-white tablecloth. She wondered what Riddle was doing, who he was talking to, and what his opinion on the incident would be. Probably not all too vibrant, for all [Y/N] knew he could care less about anything that didn't concern him, but nevertheless. With her gaze lingering in the distance, the girl's eyes fell upon yet another one of her classmates, just seemingly more sober, – Orion Black 'of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black' – in all his dark-haired and grey-eyed glory. By his side was the older-by-a-year-and-a-half cousin Walburga Black (still of that very same Noble and Most Ancient House), standing taller than the boy with big piercing eyes and a mane of dark brown curls. They were engaged – that was common knowledge. Nothing new for pureblood families, yet still... something one beyond those rounds could never get used to. At least they appeared happy together?

The band that melodized the evening switched to a more lively, jazzy tune. An arrow of wanting to swing her hips to the melody shot through [Y/N], yet she deemed it inappropriate. Instead, the young witch simply drummed her fingertips against the table to the rhythm of the song. _This was more boring than she'd ever imagined._ There was simply nothing that could improve that evening.

* * *

Or not.

Some time later, [Y/N] found a very smug-looking Tom perked by the statue of the Malfoy ancestor reincarnated in marble. He must've made a lot of progress with his 'networking'.

“Any good catches?” she questioned, beaming up at her date. For once, Riddle didn't look as though he were contemplating the next move to make in a vital game of chess. [Y/N] could be wrong, but he might've allowed himself a smirk.

“I wouldn't know what you're talking about,” he offered his arm for the girl to take, and she obtained. There was a certain haughtiness playing on his tongue and face, which almost made one think the young man had emotion. “ _May I take you someplace?_ ”

Intrigued, the Ravenclaw consented. “All right, Riddle. Lead the way.”

Together, the pair strode out of the crowded ballroom, and before [Y/N] knew it, they walked through an abandoned corridor just on the opposite side of the one they had entered from. It was the very same, just a bit wider and shorter, leading to a giant staircase at the end. The steps were, as expected, of marble, covered by a lavish emerald carpet. The staircase branched out in two directions at the very top, and as the two ascended them, carefully and slowly, as though they had all the time in the world at command, Riddle narrated, “You see, tonight, I have decided to teach the Malfoys a scant lesson.”

“You don't say.”

Riddle gifted her a glance that froze the blood in the girl's veins; his sculpted, almost porcelain-like face reflected pure fury, yet enticement all at the same time. Something within her took a leap – maybe the heart, or the fervid bundle of intestines.

“If I were you, [Y/N], I would watch my mouth,” he put forth calmly. “Some take dislike in being spoken to in such an insolent manner.”

The girl's cheeks prickled with a helpless blush. “You've never struck me as the kind.”

He promptly stopped in his tracks, nudging the girl against the railing of the staircase with his own weight, towering over her, their faces mere inches apart. [Y/N] picked up the faint notes of Firewhiskey, the cologne, the usual kind of conditioner, _the lust_. She wasn't afraid of him, but still quivered beneath his merciless gaze.

He raised his dominant hand, while the other one grasped the railing, and traced the girl's jawline with his digits. He was resisting _something_ , an obscure, lush urge, and as his relatively cold hand carefully wrapped around the young witch's throat, _she knew_. There was nothing else on the planet she wanted more than for him to clasp her neck with even more force, give it all he could, squeeze as if there was no tomorrow, rob her of her last intake of breath, and she sensed that he wanted it, too, but withstood the desire with all his might. The pad of his index finger gently grazed the soft, peachy skin of [Y/N]'s pulsating neck. It appeared as though her throat had been lit ablaze, with the skin sweltering to the touch.

“Yes,” Tom began, voice no grander than a whisper. “Yet I sure hoped you'd show _some_ decorum. But, of course, you're being a senseless brat. _As always._ ”

[Y/N]'s breath quickened, and she forced her thighs together as a tickle crept its way from the pit of her stomach towards her crotch. _Fuck, he was irresistible._ Tom's eyes bored sultry holes into the girl, the hand around her neck not intending on neither tightening nor loosening its grasp; he was so close she could see the vein on his neck prominently pulsating as he clenched his jaw. Nevertheless, he let go shortly after, stepping back, yet the timeframe in which he was an intake of breath away from her appeared endless to the young witch.

He proposed his arm once more, as though nothing at all had happened. As though she couldn't still feel the iciness of his palm around her fervid throat, the skin burning as though stung.

And maybe it didn't; maybe it was just a fruit of [Y/N]'s imagination, maybe it was all playing back in her mind like a movie.

But no, Riddle was still stood there, one step ahead of her, offering her his arm. Still flawless, in that all-black suit of his, with the patent shoes, the silky black tie, and the ebony waves cascading down his head styled to look effortlessly perfect. A pictureqsue contrast of pallid, porcelain-like skin against a monotone outfit and hairdo; pure excellence. Abashed at her befuddled state, the girl tucked her arm into his grasp, and they continued their ascent; now in silence. Tom decided to give up on his narrative.

Having arrived at the top of the staircase, the couple turned to the left, ascending yet another set of steps. Soon enough, they found themselves standing in a dim, carpeted hallway, that was only illuminated by a few ornate, vintage sconces peppered along the perimeter of the walls closing in around them. At the end of the corridor was a shiny, black door with a silver serpent engraved upon it; it sparkled in the dim light as though it had been gifted with a twinkling charm.

Tom didn't shed a single word as he led the girl towards it, and the closer they stepped to the door, the thicker and more obscene the atmosphere grew. It stood there as though a portal to another dimension, a dimension of pure, pristine debauchery: radiating a fog of obscure desire that swallowed one whole. Riddle didn't seem to get swept into the net of lustful haziness, while [Y/N], on the other hand, was mere seconds shy of melting straight into it. All of a sudden, it appeared as though she couldn't properly breathe, move, and function up until the minute she had approached that door. Whipping out his wand, the taller frame beside her unlocked it, and gallantly waited as she took a cautious step inside.

Inside, it was, to their suprise, not dark at all, as the soft pearly glow of the moon cast light into the room through tall, gothic windows. Not much was visible outside; lavish, well-groomed emerald gardens, hedges, small statues peppered here and there. The evening sky hung above clear as day – a night of no stars; it seemed as though just the moon alone felt the need to put in an appearance.

The room bore multiple items of posh, glamorous furniture – a rustic fireplace by the wall, carpets and rugs of exotic animal fur, bookshelves upon bookshelves filled with strictly wizard literature, a broad egress towards a wavily-fenced-off balcony, armchairs and poufs of tufted olive velvet, and... the bed. If one could even dare call it that.

If the English language bore a word greater than bed, [Y/N] would certainly put it to use. The bed of sombre wood – darkened walnut, maybe? – was extraordinarily large, hugged by emerald sheets embroidered with painfully expensive yarn of mystic silver. Four posts protruded from either corner of it all the way up to the ceiling, where they carried a canopy to match the bedsheets. It flowed down in waves of muted basil, and bunched around the individual posts via thick, woven golden ropes that tied the fabric around them.

A sudden sound jolted [Y/N] awake – as though a key had turned in a lock – yet it was simply Tom sealing the door shut with a spell.

“This,” he started, calmly, “is the Malfoy's master bedroom.” With all the calmness in the world gathered in his pale fist, Tom strode forward, settling just beside a tufted bedroom bench. He turned to face the girl; although there were no lights illuminating the place whatsoever, she was still able to perceive his eyes as though he had been staring directly at the brightest chandelier Malfoy Manor offered. They stirred with a certain kind of electricity – an unsolved tension, rage and lust entwined into a braid, an obscure lake of mystery the young witch was toppling around so helplessly – one more word, one more glare, one more touch, and, she was convinced, she'd be putty in his hands.

Nevertheless, [Y/N] bit back yet another _You don't say_ – last time, the Slytherin had reacted in a rather... peculiar manner. She couldn't say she didn't love it with every fibre of her being, but _still_ decided not to spite Riddle _too much._

Then, it was as though Tom had read her mind, as though the words she intended to say somehow were transmitted to him, as though he heard it in his head, because the next thing the young witch knew was that Tom Riddle had bolted in her direction, pushing her up against the heavy door and crashing his lips unto hers. As much as she hated it, her arms shot forward in form of a protective instinct – the action _did_ come as a shock, after all – but Riddle captured them mid-air, and, directing them up, pinned them against the door above the girl's head. One of his hands held her wrists in place, and the other snaked around her throat once more. He squeezed a tad, just enough for the girl to part her lips and thus welcoming his tongue into her mouth. Riddle kissed [Y/N], and the girl took a moment to dwell on the fact she'd never been kissed like _that_ even once in her life; like she was _prey_ , like she was his last chance at life, like her lips were something he couldn't function without.

She couldn't _not_ answer, and kissed back, tilting her head to provide better access. Tom smirked against her mouth, and as soon as [Y/N] was sure this moment would never end, he pulled away, leaving her a panting, hungry mess. Hands remaining in their previous positions, he inquired, “Have you been drinking?”

 _Fuck_. She _did_ empty that one sodding glass of champagne, but just that one. She wasn't drunk, she wasn't even tipsy, but the mere thought of Riddle stopping whatever it was he intended to do to her knowing she _had_ made her want to disappear off the face of earth forevermore.

“No,” she lied, voice small and feeble. The Slytherin raised a brow, tipping his head just the slightest. A fire of rage and doubt burned beyond his chocolatey irises, and at once, the young witch knew she'd made a mistake.

In a matter of milliseconds, his grip around her throat tightened. “You're lying.”

[Y/N] couldn't suppress a whimper that clawed its way out of her throat; something about his dominance, something about the fury seething within him, something about the way whatever Tom decided to do to her, she'd thank him on her knees for.

“I do not want the venom dripping from your tongue; tell me the truth,” he pressed on, tone more demanding. “Are you inebriated?”

The young witch forced her eyes shut, breath growing more unsteady. She could barely stand, her legs were wobbly, as he was so _fucking_ close to her, again, they had just kissed, and she ought to pick her words with caution; there were too many things she could say and he'd be gone in an instant, far too many than ones that triggered the opposite.

“I _did_ indulge in a singular glass of champagne,” she explained. “But I am, still, in my right mind.”

Tom allowed himself a sinister giggle. Even _he_ knew that wasn't true, not due to the alcohol, anyway; he was driving her insane at the most leisurely pace possible, in long, winding spirals, the tease he is. _Right mind_ couldn't be any more wrong.

“All right,” his nostrils narrowed as he inhaled a greedy whiff of air, almost as if he intended to steal every last molecule of it away from her. “Do you _really_ want this?”

Unable to speak, the young witch nodded. With no faint clue what it was he meant by _this_ , [Y/N] realised she didn't have less fucks to give – whatever it was, she would beg for it if needed. Her very nod was fueled by impatience and neediness, and she came to the recognition that, as hard as she tried to hide her absolute devotion to Riddle, it would never go unnoticed. He knew, he always had, and he always would.

“Use your words, darling,” he issued his demand in the softest, gentlest voice possible, as though the girl's _spoken_ consent bore valuable meaning to him. Gaze focused on the lips that were mere seconds prior moving in unison with hers, the girl gulped.

“Yes, _please,_ ” the words tore themselves free from her throat almost too willingly. She hadn't the faintest clue where all that desperation, and, frankly, that futile _please_ came from – her mind appeared to have engaged autopilot. Riddle didn't mind, _not in the slightest,_ and his mouth melted into a sombre smirk. His smugness, the knowledge he was all too well-aware of the effect he had upon her, it was all too good, too good to be true, it was _borderline_ delicious.

His tone was no more than a whisper, “That's a good girl.” He therefore gifted the young witch no time to react and connected their lips once more, in a more confident, rough kiss. The heat radiating off his face prickled the girl's cheeks, and as he kissed her deeper, with his palm firmly in place around her neck, she toppled into a trance; it was just him and her, her and him, engulfed in their own mist of darkness, of gloomy, but pleasurable euphoria.

Dark chocolate and a hint of citrus danced on his tongue as she melted into the kiss, not only his taste, but also his lips against hers numbing all of her senses. She was kissing Tom Riddle. _The_ fucking Tom Riddle. _The_ rival of her own house, the smug and enigmatic arsehole everyone tried to evade in generous curves; everyone except for his pureblood puppets with valuable connections.

The next thing she knew was that he had let go of her, and as her limp, senseless arms dove down – she could barely feel them, as they solely tingled with a gone-dead numbness. Tom grasped the girl by her wrist, his grip around it as though cushioned, and led her towards the bench at the foot of the bed. That's where [Y/N] managed to overtake a pinch of control, regaining feeling in her arms, and, sliding the ebony suit jacket off his shoulders in the process, nudged him backwards onto the bench, ultimately dropping on her knees before the Slytherin. He didn't protest, and, with her palms resting on his knees, she drove his legs apart, and scooted in between them. Riddle issued a signature snide – almost condescending – laugh, leaning forward just a tad and gathering her soft locks in his dominant hand. Wrapping her hair around his fist, he watched as she undid his belt and trousers, not without noting the apparent presence of skill and _just_ how much desperation the girl was steered by.

He grinned to himself. “May I be rough with you? Something is telling me you are more than able to take it.”

With her warm palm settled atop his semi-hard cock in his underwear, the young witch gazed up at him through her lashes, and spoke, “ _Try me._ ” Proceeding to pull him out, she took him into consideration; exceedingly lengthy and prominently veiny, his cock surpassed all of her expectations – of course, [Y/N] had always known he surely didn't sport the smallest of dicks, but it was still a little overwhelming to see it in the flesh, in its truly nauseating, drool-inducing glory. It made sense Tom was well endowed, of course it did. She took his base in both her hands, pumping, and leaned in to plant soft kitten licks and small kisses upon his sensitive, raspberry-tinted tip. Tom allowed himself to lean back, exhaling with sudden ease that swooped over his head as though a wave of fresh ocean water, and kept his grip on her mane firm.

[Y/N] carefully took him all in, and as she swirled her tongue over his shaft, he fully hardened in her mouth; the feeling couldn't be described neither with words nor with gestures nor with quills nor pens. It wasn't to be compared to anything in the entire world.

Since Tom had applied a little more pressure to the back of her head, the girl started bobbing it, first lazily, gradually picking up her pace as her throat relaxed more and more every time his head collided with the back of it. He was dropping pearls of precum into her mouth as she worked him further, producing as much saliva as she could as to improve the smoothness of the sway. A breathy moan escaped Riddle's lips, and the fingers of his free hand dug into the expensive, embroidered basil fabric of the bench. The pit of his stomach stirred with some kind of delicious zing, and just when he thought the situation couldn't get any better, [Y/N] incorporated her hands, wringing his cock in places she couldn't – or was too busy to – reach. This tugged a sharp gasp out of Tom, and he accomplished the masterpiece that was the sound by panting profusely.

“Fuck, yes,” he whimpered, voice flowing like hot caramel – tangy and profound. The girl found herself needing to stifle a raging feeling in between her legs by forcing her thighs together; she was pretty sure she had been dripping by that point. The reason for that rooted in, if not for the immense heat of the moment, then definitely because of those deep, rich groans he was gifting her. That didn't stop her from doing her absolute best job with him, swaying her head and sucking his cock with an almost masterful grace. “Good girl, taking me so well.” Delighted at the praise, [Y/N] laid more enthusiasm in her craft, as his sultry, velvet-like words translated to music to her ears; music one would never expect but be eternally blessed to hear. The fist clasping a handful of her hair didn't feel the need to control _that_ much, as she was keeping a very steady, very fine rhythm, indeed, but the occasional tug or little applied pressure that somehow lingered throughout the process led the young witch to believe she wasn't _entirely_ the one in sway. Even during moments when he had all the freedom to let go, lean back, and dawdle away in a state of bliss, he nevertheless preferred to possess at least _partial_ control – if that tells you something about Tom Riddle.

Although it appeared easy for the Slytherin to keep his composure most of the time, soon enough, he had dissolved into the embrace of the blissful, almost divine feeling, growls and moans erupting from his mouth one after another. His left leg quivered, and as he viewed [Y/N] gulp down his cock each and every time anew through semi-shut eyelids and with a slightly gaped mouth, a fruity pant frozen on his tongue, he realised _just_ how close he had been. Biting down on his lower lip as to stifle an oncoming moan that was about to tear free, Tom toughened his grip around her soft locks, and, to the young witch's surprise, pulled her off of himself.

Her eyes immediately darted up to gaze in his, and he drank in the picturesque image before him: [Y/N], on her knees before him, eyes watery, needy, fixated on him and him only, mouth parted widely, lips glistening with a mixture of saliva and precum, and a lazy string of that very same blend connecting her chin and the reddened tip of his cock. Riddle smirked down at her, tugging at her hair even firmer, thus tilting her head upwards; she didn't seem to mind, as she only let out a yelp of shock that soon enough bled into a prolonged moan.

“Open up wider for me, yes?” he requested in a calm tone, unable to hide a tinge of breathiness due to the previous panting.

The girl obeyed, gaping her mouth open as greatly as she deemed possible. Tom readjusted her head position by pulling her hair, and, the step that followed came as the most astounding, yet pleasant move yet: Riddle sucked in his cheeks, tongue visibly wandering within them, and, soon enough, harshly spat in the girl's hung agape mouth. Leaving [Y/N] no time to register the fact, he forced her down his length once again, now seizing full control over her and fucking her mouth as to bring himself over the edge. The young witch caught on quickly, keeping up with the vigorous pace Tom made her assume, and, a few thrusts later, he was coming into her mouth in hot, turbid spurts, with various kinds of pants and groans escaping him in the very process. His grip loosened in an instant, and while it was a tad more comfortable, [Y/N] retained her previous rhythm and led him through his orgasm. Eyes squeezed shut and knuckles white from digging into the velvety fabric of the bench, Tom issued one rich growl after another, gradually rolling down his high.

As soon as he was done, the girl pulled away with a soft pop and tucked him back into his trousers. She made sure he was watching _intently_ as she gazed at him through her lashes and swallowed it all, every last drop, including the clot of saliva he had previously spat into her mouth. It felt wicked; the most obscene debauchery, something one would never bring up in public but smile about to oneself in secret, reliving the memory each and every time anew.

It didn't take long until Tom had regained full composure once more, leaning forward, and, propping his elbows up on his knees, grazed the girl's flushed, heated cheek with the backside of his fingers. His touch sent bolts of lighting piercing through her skin, infiltrating her skull, and, eventually, melting her brain. Some of the Slytherin's treatment resembled a jinx of some kind – sudden, often prickly, stunning – but a jinx with permanent effect that threatened to become addictive for the recipient.

“What a filthy whore you are,” vulgar words spilled out of him, voice a mere whisper. “Suck cock like an adept, accept _anything_ I give you with no question, devote yourself to me as though your life depends on it...”

She didn't know how to respond, plus, she doubted she'd ever find suitable words to do so in the first place. With the air pregnant with silence for just a brief moment, she gazed into his bourbon-coloured eyes, searching if not for sanctuary then for any kind of explanation as to _why_ the effect he had upon her was _that_ severe. Riddle wasn't deceived, he could never be – every last word he had spoken bore naked truth, no matter how blunt and straightforward. In that moment, she would've given her all had it meant she could spend the rest of her life in that dim room with _him_. No questions asked.

He removed his palm from her face in an abrupt, nearly disgusted yank. Having focused his attention on the pine-green gardens beyond polished windowpanes, Riddle slid his dominant hand into the loop of his silky tie, pulling it open. Soon enough, he had undone the accessory, and let it freely dangle from around his neck.

His next command was clear, “Now, get off your knees, you pathetic little pet. You've spent enough time kneeling to convince me of your utter poignancy; it is rather fascinating to me.”

[Y/N] did as she was told, rising on trembling, limp legs. The pain soon spread throughout her whole frame, and there was a glint of displeasure in her eyes that Tom found himself loathing to see, an urge to prevent whatever had caused it from occuring again arising within his stomach. It was a jolt, a sudden itch, a minuscule impulse, but it was there, if only for a bat of an eye. For the first time that night, Riddle struggled to find a plausible explanation for a yearning.

Mentally waving the matter off, he proceeded, tone as demanding and sinister as before, “Undress.” He leaned back in his seat, back resting against the lavish bed behind him, preparing for the show. [Y/N] complied, how could she not, slipping out of her gown with graceful ease, of course, being closely observed by a pair of whiskey-tinted eyes that threatened to etch away her peachy skin if he kept up the gawking for a mere moment longer. To Riddle's pleased awe, beneath the dress hid not only a corresponding pair of creamy lacy underwear, but a garter belt in a similar shade to match the lingerie. Constrained in one of the belts, his gaze stumbled upon the young witch's wand. Having decided not to comment on it, he watched as the girl pulled it out, and chucked it aside.

“Leave the rest to me,” Riddle put forth. He patted his left thigh, merely shifting in his seat as to provide an utmostly comfortable position for the girl. She approached him, lowering herself onto his thigh, with her legs resting on either side of it. Even through layers of clothing, the Slytherin didn't fail to recognise not only the impossible heat radiating off of her core, but the pleasant dampness it exuded, too.

He proceeded to position his left palm atop her thigh, stroking it with generous slowness and passion. Crumbling beneath his touch, the Ravenclaw issued a shaky sigh, throwing her head backwards just a notch. Tom sneered, admiring the desperation of the girl before him.

Bucking his leg, Riddle therefore lured a gasp out of the girl's mouth, and, reaching up with his free hand, supported her chin with his digits and spoke, “Show me how great of a whore you truly are, [Y/N]. Ride yourself on me and prove that you deserve to get properly fucked.”

The girl's lip found its way between her teeth – his debaucherous words caused her head to fog up with a pink mist of oblivion – and she obeyed, supporting herself by clutching onto the young man's thigh beneath her with both hands. She started bouncing up and down, rubbing herself against the fine fabric of his snazzy black trousers at the same time. A gentle moan sprung free from her mouth, and as she sped up, her eyes rolled back into her head – if solely humping his leg sent delicious waves of bliss coursing throughout her whole body, she could only imagine what Riddle had in store for her later. Before she could even take a moment to ponder, the Slytherin inserted his index and middle fingers into her mouth. [Y/N] got the hint, wrapping her lips around them and smoothly sucking on the two, all the while keeping her pace steady as her skin buzzed with excitement and the knot in her crotch close to coming undone.

Riddle merely marvelled at the girl in his lap; she was willing to do anything to receive pleasure from him, he understood, but Tom Riddle wasn't about meaningless ten-minute-sex before dessert was served, _no,_ he much rather preferred to tease you into a state of mental blankness until you were limp, almost numb, senses dulled, and then fuck you mercilessly until you were nothing but a whimpering mess beneath him, probably overstimulated and worn out as all hell. That was the real him. Additionally, he wouldn't want to be proving a point to the Malfoys solely by taking [Y/N] on their bed; he intended to soak the room with the spirit of vulgarness as though a sponge dunked in vintage red wine. That, of course, entailed a little warm-up work.

Pulling his digits out of her mouth, Tom used his thumb to brush the girl's lips. He suppressed a praise, after all, she hadn't done much out of the ordinary, but something within him still yearned for a rewarding expression of kudos. Soon enough, he detached his hand from her face entirely, propping himself up with it on the small bench. [Y/N] didn't seem to mind _much_ , as her head had currently been stuck in a cloud of euphoria, thus, complaints weren't about to get issued. Plus, she was close, Tom could tell, and getting herself off must've been the girl's top priority (or, at least, greater than having his fingers return into her mouth).

Desperate, the Ravenclaw swiftly let go of Tom's thighs, grasping either ends of his silky, undone tie with her hands. She first tugged at them a little, and then, when the sensation in between her legs grew from a simmer to a confident boil, pulled him closer to meet his lips in a kiss – she couldn't lie, it _was_ a method to silence herself, since she was more than sure had she not done so she would've screamed out in pleasure. Tom welcomed the gesture with a helpful head tilt, lips sultry and velvety against hers. He blindly snuck his palm onto the girl's spine, caressing it in generous circular motions, until his fingers discovered the clasp of her lacy bralette. Taking it in between his index and middle fingers, he twisted them, and skillfully undid the hook in one simple movement. The item of clothing gently slid down the girl's smooth skin, flapping in the air suspended by her upper arms.

“Tom– I–” she whined, referring to the Slytherin by his first name for the first time in a while. With her constant moniker for him being _Riddle_ – _Riddle_ this, _Riddle_ that – it almost seemed as though she failed to recall he had another name in the first place. As it turned out, she, in fact, did.

“ _Sir,_ ” he corrected firmly, clenching his jaw. Being called by that name – _his_ name – on the daily was demeaning enough.

She latched on momentarily. “Master, I– I'm going to–”

“Let it go, darling,” Riddle stated, with an almost soothing note to his sultry voice. It would've caught [Y/N] off-guard hadn't she been mere leaps shy of her well-deserved climax. “Let it all out for me, show me how superb you feel.”

The girl whipped her head on impulse, messy locks bouncing in the air, and as she pressed her fists, tie ends still clutched in them, against his chest, it took her a handful more surges until she had arrived at the finish line. Stiffening up, the young witch found it difficult to keep up her rather rapid movements from earlier, but she attempted her best. She whined, not bothered to hold back in volume any longer, and panted, riding herself out on his thigh. Tom leaned back a bit, savouring his little show, observing as her movements gradually slowed down, her whimpers silenced, and her breath evened out.

Once he had deemed her ready, the Slytherin pressed out one last _Good pet,_ brimming over with delicious impatience, and, having grasped her by the hips, snatched the girl up and threw her backwards onto the bed, where he followed her onto. Tangling his long digits in the waistband of her panties, he ripped them straight off, the tearing of fabric echoing across the walls of the master bedroom. The young witch issued a gasp at his action, but put few mind to it, as he soon enough had freed her from her bralette, too, and now it was a fully-clothed Tom against an exposed [Y/N]. He hovered over her, engulfing the couple in a mist of cologne, power, and lust, leaning in to embrace her in a fervent kiss that, given enough will, could scorch one's lips.

White noise sizzled in her ears and her brain as though dunked in acid, shadows of _It can't be, It can't be, It can't be_ danced beyond her closed eyelids; Tom-Riddle-the-intimidatingly-handsome-Slytherin-genius was lying atop her bare body, delighting the Ravenclaw in a kiss and grazing her tongue with his. He was hard, again, too – his erection was pressing up against the girl's thigh.

There was no doubt, Tom Riddle (preferably in combination with strong cologne), in terms of effect, side-effect, and after-effect, equalled to the strongest love potion imaginable.

He proceeded to break the kiss, sliding his careful lips across the side of the girl's face, nearing her ear. There, he gently bit her earlobe, and after an agitated yelp from her, parted his lips, hot breath curling a trail of tingles around her auricle. “Are you doubtlessly sure you desire to do this?”

The girl's first _Yes_ was nothing but a hoarse, feeble ejection of air. Her second attempt turned out to be more fruitful, “I am. I am.” The repetition served as an affirmation that he had, in fact, heard it, and that she had, in fact, said it out loud.

“In that case,” an obscene smirk played on his lips; [Y/N] felt it against the parching skin of her ear. There was no way for her to see it, but within the depths of her heart, she knew it to be in his usual, sinister fashion – _devilish_. “You will have to beg for it, then.”

In a heartbeat, Riddle pulled away, leaving the young witch few time to process his request – command – and lifted his upper body. The Slytherin settled above her, sitting on his heels, towering and viewing the scenic image beneath him: a marvellous young beauty, torso rising and falling at an almost unhealthy speed, lungs seemingly striving for the last bit of oxygen in the room, neck, lips, cheeks, chest – all red, to the very last one, limbs assuming a faint tremble. [Y/N] was desperate. It was _too_ bloody obvious. As a matter of fact, Tom even caught himself questioning if finding oneself in _that_ sort of frenzy was even humanly possible... the girl, surely, served as living proof for that.

Riddle shut his eyes in a sense of willful glory; instances like those never failed to boost his ego. His thin fingers travelled towards the collar of his onyx shirt, and started blindly popping the buttons, one after another, at a rather dallying pace. The girl observed, drinking in the sight of more and more bare, pale flesh flashing beyond the dark fabric. Tom's skin had a flawless matte look to it, almost porcelain-like in the muted light; she all of the sudden realised she would sacrifice anything to solely be able to run her fingers across it.

Once the shirt had been undone, Riddle tugged at the tie still swung around his neck. He took the silk into consideration, weighing some sort of decision – [Y/N] was almost convinced she knew what it was about and prayed to anything he'd go through with it. At once, his attention was stolen by something rather different; he tossed the tie to the side, leaning forward with a slight tilt to the left, and, propping himself on one arm, untied the golden rope fixed around the bedpost with his free hand. Having returned to his initial position, Tom grazed his fingers over the luxurious, expensive bundle of thread braiding into a semi-thick woven cord.

“Perfect,” he mumbled to himself, and once his eyes had flickered down at [Y/N], she had already stretched out her arms and pressed her wrists against one another for him. Riddle couldn't help but express his admiration for the act in form of a satisfied sneer, straining the rope in his hands. He proceeded to wrap it around her wrists, tying a stealthy, complicated knot – the young witch wondered whether he had done that before, as it had gone down with utmost skill and professionalism.

Taking a short moment to admire his artwork, Riddle scoffed. “Look at you, so pitiful. Usually so fierce, so devil-may-care, but what about now?” A bitter laugh escaped him. “I'm going to fuck you like the whore you are, and you're going to take it all. Every last bit of it.” By then, the girl had shut her eyes, thus only able to hear the zipper – soon enough, Riddle had grasped her by the hip, pulling her closer. She swung both her legs around his body, clinging onto the smooth skin and somehow silky fabric of his trousers for dear life. With his other hand, Tom pinned her tied arms above her head. Thereupon, he issued a prompt command, “Keep them there.”

Gifting himself lazy, teasing strokes, Tom threw his head back, rolling it around from one shoulder to another. Soon enough, he had lined himself up, but instead of sliding in, he teased her dripping, sweltering core with his head. It grazed the oversensitive knob, causing her to issue a whimper, and spread turbid precum across her entrance. [Y/N] reacted by biting down on her lower lip, and Riddle merely sneered. No, he hadn't forgotten his own conditions – he was _Tom Riddle_ for Merlin's sake. “Why don't you beg for me?” he requested, pride entwined with darkness palpable in every syllable.

Lips trembling with anticipation, the young witch swallowed. “Please, master, please. I...” – she stopped, in desperate need to take a shaky breath – “I need you; I cannot handle this any longer.” Riddle basked in the vulgar, yet flattering nature of her pleads, and, giving in, thrusted inside, drawing a yelp out of the girl's mouth. Her sultry walls stretched around his cock in a luscious fashion and he forced a large portion of air out of his nose; she was so tight he threatened to come sooner than expected. That's when the thrusting began, and, right off, he had picked up a rough pace, flipping his hair as to force some of it out of his sight – he desired to read every single emotion engraved upon the girl's face as he fucked her into the Malfoy's bed.

At first, she was merely letting out faint whimpers and soft moans, causing Tom to speed up. He moved steadily, watching intently as the girl's cheeks bloomed with a deeper shade of crimson. Her eyes were screwed shut, fists clenched with as much strength as she had to offer (it wasn't much). Riddle could tell she was trying her absolute best to hold back and suppress any type of sound; he came to find the fact somehow _offensive_.

Enraged, he grabbed her by the pit of her knee, yanking it up in the air and swinging it over his shoulder – at that, the young witch yowled, as Riddle had not only allowed himself to go deeper, but also collided with her sweet spot. After a few vigorous, rough thrusts, he had picked up on the fact, and promptly slowed down. Tugging at the mellow fabric of the garter around her thigh, he ripped it off, sending it flying in an unknown direction. Caught off-guard and panting, [Y/N] gazed up at him as though he'd jinxed her – the Slytherin's face bore a mischievous grin.

His nostrils narrowed, and he put forth, “Don't you usually keep that dirty mouth of yours wide open? I want to hear from you, you slut. You need to deserve good fucking; being silent doesn't quite cut it.” Having spoken those words, Riddle proceeded to thrust a little harder, only to have the girl erupt in a subtle waterfall of moans, whines, and whimpers beneath him. “That's it,” he spat, finding it difficult to breathe; her walls clenched around his cock, pulsating harder each and every time anew, and as he continued abusing her spot by colliding with it over and over again, he came to the realisation she wouldn't last much longer. Thus, Riddle straightened his spine, and, palm firmly pressed against her thigh as to keep the leg atop his shoulder steady, assumed an overwhelming pace.

Moans and whimpers couldn't stop tumbling down the young witch's lips; somehow, Tom's words served as some sort of opener that unscrewed the cork of her bottle of modesty, causing it to burst – if a few minutes earlier, she'd crucify herself for letting anyone at all hear her, she had now moved past that thought and even _wished_ someone would walk in to witness _just_ how skillfully Riddle was fucking her. It was empyreal; the knot in the pit of her stomach tightened, and as the Slytherin's deep groans and shaky breaths echoed back and forth within her head, she dissolved in his determined grip, stars glimmering on the inside of her eyelids.

“Fuck,” Riddle hissed through gritted teeth, eyes screwed shut. A sweaty black lock had glued to his forehead, but he paid few attention to it, more focused on his thrusts and trying to comprehend the sensation of the girl's walls pulsating around his cock. His insides stirred with a pleasant, warm vibration, and though he wasn't close enough just yet, [Y/N] certainly lingered at her limits. Inhaling with more sharpness than he expected, Tom growled, “Come on– _fuck,_ come for me.” And, as though wished for, a few rough thrusts and cries later, the Ravenclaw was coming undone beneath Tom; her heart threatened to break free through her ribs, a flower of bliss blooming in her crotch. Her limbs quivered, breath caught in her lungs, and for a handful of seconds, it was just _her_ – swallowed by the abyss, unsure if returning was even an option.

The next thing [Y/N] knew was that the rope around her wrists had been tugged at and simply undone, the spots where it had been numb yet searing with pain all at once, blooming with a rich shade of aubergine. The pain shot through her body as though an arrow, yet in combination with the orgasm wearing off, it was divine. Thereupon, Tom had lifted her leg off of his shoulder and pulled out, raising the girl into the air and flipping her over.

“Bedpost,” he ordered breathily, and, with the last strength [Y/N] had left, she crawled over to one of the posts. Her knees buzzed and quivered, and, searching for support, she clung onto the dark wood with her arms. In no time, the Slytherin had placed his palm atop her hip, fingers curling around the curve of her limp body, and with no warning, thrust back in. The young witch threw her head back in surprise, whining out in pleasure, and although she was a little sore and overstimulated, it still satisfied her to no end – due to the change of the position, Riddle not only won over a new angle, but the valuable opportunity to go bittersweetly deep. He made sure to put it to full use, thrusting hard, digits digging into the mellow skin of the girl's hipbones. The feeling of her clenching around him overwhelmed his senses; his ears plugged up and his throat ran dry, thus causing his groans to come out even raspier than before.

Lewd skin-to-skin noises filled the room, adding up to the moans, whimpers, and growls, bleeding into a vulgar, debaucherous sonata of love, lust, and pleasure. [Y/N] wondered if she'd ever feel like _that_ ever again in her lifetime, brushing it off as impossible, as she was convinced other things could only come close, but never balance it out or even surpass it. Before that train of thought had even ended, the young witch was jolted awake by Tom gripping and tugging at her hair, causing a prolonged, obscene moan to crawl out of her throat. As it was now exposed to him due to the fact the girl had thrown her head backwards, Riddle made use of the handy opportunity and wrapped his palm around her neck, first gently palming it, but then switching to squeezing at the sides.

With her grasp tight around the wooden bedpost, [Y/N] panted, at least as well as it was possible with a large, skilled hand wrapped around her throat. Her yelps had grown to be louder, more profound, and before she knew it, she had already been a few thrusts shy of yet another discharge; at least the stirring in the pit of her stomach prompted her so.

“Master– I–”

“I know,” Tom growled absent-mindedly. It was rather hard to come up with a plausible response while he was giving his all to keep his pace steady, and not fully let go of his composure. His chest burned with endeavour as he continued, “Fuckin' do it.” And as he thrust in yet again, colliding with the girl's sweet spot, she was sent over the edge with a powerful, sizzling sensation. She cried out, losing feeling in her fingers, and as a wave of satisfaction swooped over her entire body, Riddle squeezed her throat harder. Left with no other choice but to hum and vigorously breathe through her nose, the young witch indulged in her third orgasm of the night, eyes rolling into the back of her head, where she watched a variety of vibrant specks and stars prance about.

Soon enough, her orgasm had begun to fade. Riddle's, on the other hand, lingered just around the corner – due to the staggering pulsation [Y/N]'s walls had given off during her discharge, he had found himself closer to his own finish line than ever before. His thrusts had become sloppy, a little less rough, and as a chain of pants and groans slipped out of his mouth, Tom had finally reached his high. Palm letting go of the girl's throat, trembling just the slightest bit, he emptied himself into her, simultaneously leading himself through it with slower, yet not any less powerful thrusts. “ _Merlin,_ ” he growled, the heat spreading from his crotch throughout his whole body, lighting it ablaze. It was as though someone had sent a cunning _Incendio!_ his way, but instead of melting his skin and kindling unbearable pain, it engulfed him in a bubble of intense heat, his senses numb, his head spinning in circles, his vision blurry before him as he was being cloaked in a blanket of pure bliss.

Once the Slytherin had ridden himself out, the aftertaste of his orgasm lingering on his skin in form of a soft vibration, he pulled out of [Y/N] in a slow, gentle motion. A turbid mixture of his cum and her discharge oozed out of the girl's worn-out, reddish hole, and as Riddle sent his hand through his rather sweaty, unkempt hair, he collected some of it with the fingers of his free hand. Leaning forward over a trembling, wildly breathing [Y/N], who was still clutching the bedposts as though they would charge her with energy, he grasped her by the neck and forced the fingers into her mouth. Eyes falling shut, she closed her lips around them, sucking and licking them clean. “Just like that,” praised the Slytherin in an obscure, deep voice, soon pulling them back out and smirking to himself. Their blend of tastes danced on her tongue, and [Y/N] swallowed it all, inhaling a rich portion of sultry, sex-scented air.

As Tom allowed himself to fall backwards, the girl let go of the post, propping herself up, limbs sore, and sat up against it, facing Riddle. With her face bathed in a pleasant shade of magenta, eyes watery, and lips plump, Tom couldn't help but nibble on his lip at the rather stunning sight. Once his gaze had fallen upon the soft, burgundy marks around her neck, that grew darker by the minute, one of his eyebrows shot up with curiosity.

“I think,” he began, a hint of playfulness to his breathy, but nevertheless sultry tone. “We can still make last dance.”

[Y/N] scoffed in response. There she was again, bold and perky, as though Riddle hadn't fucked her soul straight out of her body mere moments prior. He grinned at the thought, and she rasped, “You must be pulling my leg, Riddle.” Seriously, what _was_ that momentary transformation?

He issued an obscure, taunting laugh. “Have I ever done so? Get on your feet, let's not offend the hosts. I'm sure they're drowning in a sense of longing.” By then, he had already gotten up from the bed, each and every curve and muscle of his torso emphasised by the dim lighting of the master bedroom – it resembled some sort of marble sculpture from a myriad of years ago. The David, maybe, except significantly more well endowed.

“I look like–”

“Like I just wrecked you, yes,” Riddle gifted the girl the satisfaction of finishing her sentence for her, picking his shirt up from the floor. Having put it on, he stuffed it into his undone trousers, all with nonchalant elegance. “Yet that is easily fixable. Get up before I make you do so.” Utmostly peculiar – [Y/N] had made _the_ Tom Riddle repeat himself.

The girl proceeded to scoot over to the edge of the bed with a weary sigh, dangling her bare legs over it. She pondered. “You've torn my panties.” It was neither a question nor a statement, instead an observation; a simple thought spoken into existence, no more than a wisp of wind.

“ _And_ your garter, but I am convinced you can do without them,” his response was short as he buttoned his onyx shirt, fingers working with alluring skill. The young witch shot him a glum, almost sour glare. He merely rolled his eyes.

* * *

Once the two of them had been dressed again, Riddle flicked his wand with a hushed spell lingering on his lips, and, in no time, [Y/N]'s hair had assumed its previous state – gentle, neat, and luxurious. As much as he didn't want to, he had also refreshed her face, gifting it a more buoyant glint – it would truthfully be his biggest wish to fix himself up and strut out with a completely worn-out, forlorn [Y/N] by his side, as a little _Fuck you_ to the Malfoys, á la _I just took this half-blood on your very bed in the dirtiest fashion possible_. He'd give a lot to delight in, to simply _see_ the expressions upon their sallow, prejudiced faces. Yet, after all, Tom had to sustain his spotless image, to save the connections, to assure his absolute dominance. Shaking the thought off, he continued his spellwork, and thus, a few simple incantations later, the Ravenclaw before him was as good as new – only the now mended knickers and the garter he had kept. The young witch wasn't sure as to how she was supposed to fathom having to stroll around Malfoy Manor with no underwear on, but inquiring to get it back would, firstly, not work, since what Tom Riddle wanted he received no matter what, and, secondly, [Y/N] admitted to herself, she wouldn't want them back, anyway. Something about him holding onto her oh-so-intimate belongings caused her insides to curl and churn within her – to hell with it, he could have them.

Tom repeated the chain of spells, this time casting them unto himself. Gazing in the bedroom mirror on the opposite side of the row of windows, he stood there, eyes of whiskey fixated on his reflection. Not even a trace of the events from earlier – “ _Splendid._ ”

Walking up to the young witch, he proposed his arm. “Shall we?”

With a nagging pain stirring in the pit of her stomach, all the witch was able to offer Tom was an askew smile. Merely issuing a small laugh to himself, Riddle allowed her to slip her arm through his, and, they proceeded to exit the bedroom, the black, heavy door falling shut behind their backs. [Y/N] wondered whether he had forgotten to take care of the bed, to return it to its previous, untouched state – knowing him well enough by then, she recognised it must've been the Slytherin's full intention to abandon it as is.

The pair descended the multiple sets of staircases in a mist of comfortable silence; a silence not strained with spiky tension, but rather content tranquility. Only the clicking of heels and soft, even breaths were heard all along as [Y/N] and Tom passed hallways of fashionable, posh decor, with all different kinds of tasteful adornments strewn about in a manner to portray one empyreal material state. As much as Malfoy Manor seemed crammed, it appeared minimalistic all at the same time, with just the right amount of boasting not to get agitated but certainly be overwhelmed. Chandeliers, crystal vases, ornate wallpaper, marble, patches of silver, and serpents. High ceilings adorned with art, as though frescos at an ancient cathedral, with the mere difference of portraying years upon years of blood supremacy, prejudice, and intolerance in more obscure and sharp tones. The palace resembled a museum of arcane, insidious misery, and even though that always seemed like something Tom Riddle delighted in, even the man himself didn't come across as though he felt at home. Something about the mansion was repellent, revolting, even; it was as though it couldn't wait to seize the opportunity to grasp them by the scruff of their necks and hurl them out, preferably far, far away from the premises. [Y/N] chalked it up to the two of them being of less desirable – at least in the eyes of the Malfoys – blood status.

Having arrived back in the ballroom, the couple was once again greeted with a pleasant, fluent melody, that glided about as unbothered as can be. Though certainly, the amount of guests had lessened ([Y/N] had no clue as to how much time her and Tom had spent upstairs, but it must've been well over an hour), the function nevertheless appeared to still find itself in full swing. Patches of taffeta, silk, crepe, velvet, chiffon, paduasoy, and lace twirled about on the polished, reflective floor of a foggy shade of ebony. Witches, wizards and others were still either entwined in individual dances, or indulged in a break on the sidelines, nursing glasses of gold, brown, crimson, emerald green, bubbly, frothy, high percentage, anything you can think of, or surrendered themselves to conversations with someone equally as rich and prestigious as them.

Riddle led [Y/N] towards the heart of the room, positioning himself before her. Standing a proud, yet overwhelming six foot four, he towered over the girl with significance and ease, and though his glare and stance tended to intimidate, the young witch had found comfort in his arms, engulfed in the warmth that radiated off his body. It bore something spiny about it, as though Tom was equipped with invisible thorns scattered across his fingertips, but the more she got to know him, and the closer they shifted towards one another, the more the spikes seemed to retract. Never in a trillion years would [Y/N] [Y/LN] even consider being the reason Tom Riddle himself was letting his guard down. Though astonishing, she felt glorious.

He took her hand in his, and, simultaneously, laid the other one atop her hip. The girl responded by placing hers upon his shoulder, and, soon enough, having considered the rhythm and counted the tempo, Tom dared a confident step, and commenced a serene waltz. Not only had Riddle been controlling and dominant at school, in bed, or in conversation – you best believe he took sway in dancing, too, since it appeared as though [Y/N] didn't even need to move a single limb; he guided her, conducted every movement, and she melted into every motion of his, swinging to the wandering pace of the music in his gentle, yet determined grip. A phenomenal dancer, the Slytherin once more proved to be someone from all imaginable realms of perfection – _ominous_ perfection.

[Y/N]'s eyes scanned the room around her, taking stock and picking up faces flashing in all possible directions. After all, she didn't feel the need to watch her step, as, for one, she considered herself a superb dancer, too, and for two, Riddle would make sure she didn't dare misstep and blunder their oh-so-perfect waltz. A minute or two into their elegant swaying, [Y/N] conjectured, “I wonder where Rodion and Dimitri are – I have met them earlier, but they appear to have vanished as of now.” Yes, it was a feeble attempt at conversation; the Ravenclaw was willing to offer up anything in order to be able to perceive the deep, viscous flow of his voice again – she realised how silly and desperate her inquiry must've sounded only after the words had already left her mouth, and she switched to hoping they'd drown in the tunes of the evening, the chatter, and the swing of their bodies, but Tom had heard all right.

“I suppose,” his reply wasn't long in coming; a streak of satiric pride arose within him as he spoke, painting his voice in an even darker tone than usual. “They have been towed off the premises, since, as far as I've come to learn, they don't usually last an hour at functions of this fashion. They're routinely either removed due to transcendental intoxication, or blatant indecency towards women, or, sometimes, themselves.” The Slytherin flashed an entertained smirk, possibly recalling past experiences.

[Y/N], somehow, didn't find it all too hard to believe him. Most male adolescents of pureblood descent acted, and, certainly, looked the part. Furthermore, she elaborated, “Last time I saw them, they were indulging in getting their significantly younger cousin from Sweden insanely drunk; it was no wondrous sight.”

As a reaction, Riddle merely issued a chortle. “I'm not surprised – that's fully and entirely in character.” They proceeded twirling around, some curious pairs of eyes peppered around the hall fixated on them, and as the Slytherin swung the young witch around time and time again, a warm fluid came flowing down her thigh – at once, [Y/N] realised there was more than one reason for Riddle having pocketed her underwear. He always planned ten, if not a hundred steps ahead, and the girl instinctively allowed her eyes to fall shut in bliss, dwelling on their previous encounter and holding onto every last string of the memory of it.

The song changed, fading into a more gradual, calm, and hearty melody. Tom responded by slowing down the sway of their dance, confident hands in perfect hold of the young witch before him, and accustomed to the new rhythm. Of course, he found no difficulty in doing so. And as though he had recognised, had been able to read her troubled and flustered mind, Riddle tore through her fantasy with his gentle voice, “Do you see that man over there?” [Y/N] assumed the direction of his espresso-coloured eyes with her own, catching a glimpse of a rather short, plump gentleman wearing a spiky white moustache that resembled a seal's. Funnily enough, the singular strings of white bunched up beneath his nose as though a bouquet of frost-coated blades of grass were the only hair he appeared to house. Without needing the girl's confirmation, Riddle pressed on, “He spends half of his monthly earnings on a rather demanding mistress in Germany.”

[Y/N]'s mouth split in an enticed grin. She caught herself picking up more and more liking to that talkative, borderline garrulous Tom Riddle, rather than the intimidating, bossy and uncommunicative kind. Entertaining the idea of deepening the conversation, she inquired, “What does he do?” Riddle appeared to be calculating a thought.

“Occupies the position of Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation; it _does_ explain him becoming acquainted with a German actress, doesn't it, _darling?_ ” he answered her question, calm and casual, as though it was a proven fact taught to all from an early age. That intentional _darling_ failed to slip through the cracks, and the girl delighted in it more than she ever expected to, the contrast between the pet name and Tom referring to her with vulgar and obscene terms – as he had the tendency to – profound and enticing.

“Curious,” commented [Y/N], an impish grin playing on her face. Maybe Riddle wasn't as ominous and perilous as he appeared to be, maybe all of it was nothing but a protective mask, a defense mechanism, maybe he had blossomed to be his true self in front of her, maybe... The sole fact she had considered that possibility caught the young witch off-guard so severely her breath stagnated somewhere halfway through her windpipe. _That wasn't him,_ or maybe it was, but most possibly, it was just him playing one of his charismatic roles in order to win her over; she knew him to do so to lots upon lots before her – the Hogwarts librarian, teachers, first-years, students that ended up joining his array of sycophants, and even elderly magi with more influence than your average seventh-year can even imagine. _He's using you for his advantage. Something that can play into his malevolent hands. This is an act. Do not give in. Do not falter._ Thoughts raced her corrupted mind as though a myriad of vicious Bludgers, colliding with her skull and bouncing off of the bone only to continue bolting about. Back then, she didn't realise she had already been swept so far into his nets, a limp fly captured in a spider web to be devoured, that there was no return.

“I never thought of you as such a gossip, Riddle,” she put forth, now that the lump in her throat had come to an ease at last; it took longer than she'd expected, to her surprise and Tom's sheer entertainment.

Her remark merely amused the Slytherin; he alerted her by raising an inquisitive eyebrow and cocking the edge of his mouth upwards. In response, he spat, tone sombre and alluring, thus confirming that no matter how friendly he appeared to be, his true self – ominous, obscure, _devilish_ – would always linger beneath the surface, “ _I_ never thought of _you_ as a dirty little whore.”

**Author's Note:**

> that's it! i thank you for reading, and simultaneously ask you to consider following my twitter – @/nobleregulus – i'm friendly! have a nice day, my sweets <3


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